


Stellar

by brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Gallavich, M/M, not entirely sure what I'm doing but I thought I'd give this a shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2079846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/pseuds/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 4x12. Ian's been in bed for a while, and is finally showing signs of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stellar

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd try my hand at... not sure what to call this. Fluff? Angst? Terribly long-winded? Anyhow, this little piece was inspired by the song 'Stellar' by Incubus. It reminded me of Ian and Mickey (although what doesn't at this point?). I'm just gonna throw in the lyrics that sort of resonated with me. 
> 
> 'Meet me in outer space  
> We could spend the night  
> Watch the earth come up  
> I've grown tired of that place  
> Won't you come with me?'
> 
> And then...
> 
> 'Meet me in outer space  
> I will hold you close  
> If you're afraid of heights  
> I need you to see this place  
> It might be the only way  
> That I can show you how  
> It feels to be inside of you'
> 
> As ever, comments and criticisms are more than welcome.

It was late at night, and Mickey Milkovich was lying on his side in bed. He was curled up against the figure lying beside him, Mickey’s arm loosely wrapped around the young man’s waist. The person was unresponsive, as he’d been every night for almost two weeks. Still, Mickey held him close.

Every morning when Mickey woke up, he’d find himself wound around Ian protectively. Every morning, Mickey would look into that familiar stranger’s face. He’d see dull brown eyes, pale skin, and chapped lips. And Mickey’d be assaulted with a feeling of helplessness that he’d never experienced before.

The closest Mickey had ever come to feeling this way was when Terry had walked in on him and Ian that day. A day that would’ve been one of Mickey’s few good memories, if they hadn’t been interrupted. If he hadn’t seen a gun pointed at Ian’s head; if he hadn’t been forced to fuck a whore. But even that god awful day had been bearable. Mickey had known that so long as he sacked up, took it like a man, Ian would be okay. Yeah, there’d be fallout; how couldn’t there be? But Ian would walk outta that house, and he’d be fine.

But this time Ian wasn’t getting up, getting dressed, getting out.

He was just lying there, in Mickey’s bed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The happiness and animation and fucking _life_ that had made Ian so hard to keep up with these last few weeks was gone. And Jesus, Mickey would take the late nights and early mornings, the non-stop chatter, the mood swings, _anything_ , just so long as Ian got up.

Every morning, Mickey waited for Ian to snap out of it. Fuck, he’d even taken to praying to a God he didn’t even fucking believe in, in the hopes that maybe _someone_ was listening. Every night, he’d snuggle up against Ian. He’d wrap himself around the other boy, like maybe if he held on tightly enough, he could put Ian back together.

But there was no change.

Mickey had started talking to Ian in the hopes of getting some sort of response. Sometimes about his day, about how the whores were driving him crazy. Or about the past, reminiscing about the day he’d knocked that creepy old fucker on his ass; how they’d run from the cops, laughing like they didn’t have a single care in the world. He even talked about the future, about _their_ future. Sometimes, Ian let Mickey touch him. Most days, Ian shrugged Mickey off, but there were times where he let Mickey hold his hand or let Mickey run his fingers through his hair.

Mickey remembered when Ian used to talk about the future, about his plans to leave the South Side and join the army. Mickey had always had a weird feeling when Ian used to babble on about that shit. He’d feel caged, hopeless. Like he’d once pointed out to the redhead, he was fucked. Mickey didn’t harbour in naive hopes about what lay in store for him. South Side for life, and all that.

But Ian had known exactly where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do with his life. And as much as it had killed Mickey to think about Ian leaving the South Side, leaving _him_ , even those months of not knowing where the hell Ian was, was preferable to this.

This morning, Mickey was talking about the day he’d gotten out of juvie the first time, when he’d come out of that shithole to find Ian and Mandy waiting for him. He and Ian had spent the night together; fucking, drinking, laughing, talking about random shit. He remembered Ian asking him about vocational training. He’d been an asshole, shooting his mouth off about Ian wanting to spread out a blanket to look for shooting stars.

Mickey’d seen the rueful smile on Ian’s face, the one he usually got when Mickey acted like an insensitive prick. The redhead had blown the whole thing off. No big deal, they didn’t have to talk about shit that mattered. It was just sex.

But Mickey knew that Ian had wanted to do couple things, that clichéd shit that people did when they were into each other. Holding hands, going to movies and, yeah, watching out for shooting stars.

Mickey would happily do any of that shit, if only Ian would just get up.

It was while Mickey was talking—musing that when Ian felt better, maybe they’d go on a date—that he felt something that made his heart leap. He’d been holding on to the other boy’s hand, enjoying the contact, when Ian’s fingers twitched in his. At first, Mickey had thought that Ian was about to pull back, to tell him to go away, but then...

Mickey had felt Ian’s hand gently squeezing his.

He jerked his head in Ian’s direction, frantic to make eye contact. And for the first time in weeks, those brown eyes were focused. That thousand yard stare had been replaced by a gaze that actually seemed to take in its surroundings.

“Hey,” Ian whispered.

The relief at hearing something other than “Go away”, or “Leave me alone” was enough to knock the breath out of Mickey. It took him a second to respond.

“Hey, yourself,” he croaked.

They stared at each other for a moment. Mickey shook himself out of his daze. _Fucking moron_ , he thought. Spent the last two weeks hoping for Ian to talk to him, and the best he could do was “Hey, yourself?” Fucking pussy.

He cleared his throat. “You, uh... can I get you anything? Food, water?”

Ian nodded. “Water would be great. And maybe some... toast?” His voice was rusty from disuse.

Mickey all but leapt from the bed. Ian was finally asking for food. For the last couple of days, Mickey’d had to all but force stuff down his throat. It’d been fucking agony to see the redhead like that. Now, he was willing to eat, and Mickey would kill at this point to get Ian whatever he needed.

“Hey, Mick?” That hoarse whisper again. It was probably the most beautiful thing Mickey had ever heard.

Mickey turned to face him. “What’s up?” he asked gently.

“You think... you think you could help me to the bathroom?” Ian sounded embarrassed, his face flushing slightly. “I don’t think I can stand up on my own.”

Mickey forced himself to shrug casually, like the idea that Ian felt so weak that he couldn’t make it the few steps to the bathroom didn’t kill Mickey a little bit. He headed towards Ian’s side of the bed and carefully helped Ian sit up. Mickey wrapped his arm around the redhead’s waist, and pulled Ian’s arm over his shoulder.

“C’mon,” Mickey muttered as he pulled Ian up. It took longer than it should have for them to reach the bathroom, and Mickey stayed until Ian had finished up. The other boy had tried to shoo Mickey from the room, but Mickey was having none of it. Ian had only just gotten up; the last thing they needed was him doing a faceplant on the floor.

Once Ian was back in bed, Mickey went to get the requested items. He made something for himself, too. He sat next to Ian and ate his toast, like this was nothing more than the two of them having breakfast in bed. He barely tasted the food. He wanted to watch Ian like a hawk, make sure he ate every crumb. But he knew that would make Ian feel like a freak, so he just concentrated on his own plate.

Ian didn’t finish eating, but he did ask for another glass of water. Mickey tried not to run to get it for him.

Finally, they were both done. Their plates and Ian’s glass rested on the bedside table. The silence was deafening.

Mickey finally turned to look Ian in the eye. “How you feelin’?”

Ian sighed. “Better. Not great, but not as bad as before...” He trailed off, before finally whispering, “I’m sorry, Mick.”

“The fuck for?” Mickey asked, more harshly than he intended. He hastened to clarify, “You weren’t feeling too hot, I took care of you. No big deal. And now you’re feelin’ better. Simple.”

And Ian was feeling better. He showered while Mickey hastily changed the sheets, and he sat in the living room with Mandy for a few minutes. Mickey could see the relief on his sister’s face. She’d been nearly as worried about Ian as him.

“You want me to call your family?” Mickey asked once Ian had ensconced himself safely back in what had become their bedroom.

“Not yet,” Ian answered quietly. “I’m still just... really tired.”

Mickey didn’t argue, although he knew that the Gallagher’s would likely lynch him if they found out that he hadn’t called them as soon as Ian started feeling better.

So, Mickey went to work, and acted like everything was normal. He yelled at his whores, and they yelled back at him. He argued with Kev about how they were gonna split the day’s takings. He flipped Tommy off every time the dickhead made some off-colour queer joke. And he checked his phone repeatedly, having demanded that Mandy give him updates on how Ian was doing. Mickey knew that it would undoubtedly piss the redhead off once he was really feeling better, but for now, Mickey needed reassurance that he hadn’t been hallucinating Ian’s slight recovery.

It was past midnight when Mickey finally left The Alibi. It’d been a busy night, the one time when Mickey _needed_ to go home because there had actually been a change in Ian’s condition, and every horny fucker on the South Side had decided he needed someone else to jerk his dick for him.

Mickey rushed through his shower, and crept into their bedroom. He was struggling not to wake Ian, when he heard the other boy’s voice.

“I like what you did to the ceiling.”

Mickey glanced up automatically, and felt himself flush. Oh, shit.

The only defence Mickey had was that he’d done it in one of those desperate moments. He knew it was gay as fuck, didn’t know what the hell he’d been fucking thinking, but he’d wanted to do something, _anything_ , to cheer Ian up. So he’d gone down to the dollar store, and bought a couple of packets of glow-in-the-dark stars. It was winter, and it was cold, so it wasn’t like it was the best time to go looking for shooting stars. Hell, Mickey wasn’t even sure they’d be able to see the goddamn things, what with Chicago’s city lights and smog. So he’d stuck some up on the ceiling, while Ian had been staring at nothing.

Ian hadn’t reacted to the new additions to the room, and Mickey had sort of forgotten about them, moving on to his next idea of what could possibly shake Ian from his daze.

But Ian wasn’t in that fog any more. He was looking at Mickey with clear eyes, and he was smiling. He didn’t say anything else, thank fuck. He just pulled aside the covers, and scooted over to make room for Mickey.

Mickey got into the bed and pulled Ian close. He pressed a kiss to the redhead’s forehead, and just breathed him in. They lay there like that for a long time, staring up at the stars.

He was starting to fall asleep when he felt Ian pull away. Mickey jolted, immediately wanting Ian back. Before he could panic though, he felt Ian’s lips brush against his. Ian’s warm breath caressed his face as the other boy whispered, “Thank you.”

Mickey stared at Ian. He couldn’t see his face, couldn’t make out his expression. Mickey reached out and ran his thumb over Ian’s cheekbone. “Anything,” Mickey promised the young man in his arms.

Nothing more was said after that. The two of them just held on to each other, watching for shooting stars, until they finally drifted off.


End file.
